Barefooted and
drenched in a terrific thunderstorm, Mackenzie wandered on till
darkness shrouded the forest. He had just lain down on a soaking couch
of spruce boughs when the ricochetting echo of a gun set the boulders
crashing down the precipices. Hurrying down-stream, he found Mackay at
the canoe. The crew pretended that a leakage about the keel had caused
delay; but the canoe did not substantiate the excuse. Mackenzie said
nothing; but he never again allowed the crew out of his sight on the
east side of the mountains.
So far there had been no sign of Indians among the mountains; and now
the canoe was gliding along calm waters when savages suddenly sprang
out of a thicket, brandishing spears. The crew became panic-stricken;
but Mackenzie stepped fearlessly ashore, offered the hostiles presents,
shook hands, and made his camp with them. The savages told him that he
was nearing a _portage_ across the Divide. One of them went with
Mackenzie the next day as guide. The river narrowed to a small
tarn--the source of Peace River; and a short _portage_ over rocky
ground brought the canoe to a second tarn emptying into a river that,
to Mackenzie's disappointment, did not flow west, but south. He had
crossed the Divide, the first white man to cross the continent in the
North; but how could he know whether to follow this stream? It might
lead east to the Saskatchewan. As a matter of fact, he was on the
sources of the Fraser, that winds for countless leagues south through
the mountains before turning westward for the Pacific.
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